by Mike Rhynard
Colman nodded slowly. “Hmm. Well, I can’t disagree with that logic, but—” He saw Elyoner and Virginia approaching. “ Elyoner. Here, take my seat.” He rose, pointed at the stool.
“No, Thomas, sit down. I came to see how my best friend fares. Here, Ananias, hold Virginia while I visit her. Any change?”
Allie’s heart fluttered, raced with excitement.
“None,” Colman said. “Let’s go inside and sit by her. ’Tis cooler now, and time to bathe her wounds.
The three men lifted their stools, followed Elyoner inside, then set them near the doorway to enjoy the light breeze that drifted in from outside.
Colman went to the bucket, poured some water into a bowl, and started tearing two-inch strips of cloth for bandages. George collected three candles and set them beside Emily, who lay unconscious on her bed at the rear of the cottage. She had a sheet over her body, and her forearms and head were completely covered with bandages that had several red splotches where blood had seeped through.
Elyoner knelt beside her then looked at Colman. “I think the bleeding’s slowed, don’t you agree, Thomas?”
“Aye, but not enough.” He handed the water and bandages to Elyoner, turned away, rubbed his eyes. Seeing his vibrant daughter helpless, battered, and nearly dead tore at his heart like a hungry wild beast. Normally a reserved, dispassionate man, he struggled to contain his emotions; had remained by her side, leaving only for the most necessary matters; prayed as never before while she clung to life by the thinnest of threads. Even now, when she appeared to be improving, he couldn’t escape the horrible guilt of having caused her suffering and near death solely for his own gratification. He’d been a selfish fool, and though he hadn’t told anyone, he’d resolved to return to England at the first opportunity, even if his wife and son arrived with White and had to immediately reboard the ship to sail home.
Elyoner stared at Emily with misty eyes, shook her head. “My friend, my friend, my poor, dear friend. You must return to us.” She leaned forward, kissed Emily on the cheek. “Here, George. Hold her head up—right here, under the neck—while I unwrap the cloth.”
After George did as she asked, Elyoner gently unwrapped the bandage, winced, swallowed hard as she saw where the stone club had hit on the left side of Emily’s head and the physician had cut away enough hair to see and stitch the gash. “Well, ’tis still ugly but definitely better. I think she’s improving . . . at least the wound is. We won’t know how she is inside until she wakes . . . and she will wake. God will answer our prayers.”
Elyoner began to bathe the wound with a slow, feathery touch. It was a two-inch-long cut surrounded by a purple-black bruise that covered the entire side of her head and the left front of her face, all the way to her black left eye. Careful to do no more than caress with the wet cloth, Elyoner cleaned the dried blood away, rinsed the cloth, and repeated the process until the blood was gone. Then as a trace of new blood appeared, she held the cloth against the wound with a slight pressure until it stopped.
The men watched the process with twitchy, empathetic eyes, grateful that Elyoner, rather than they, was treating the wound.
When she had stopped the bleeding, Elyoner put a bit of tree moss on the wound, wrapped a new bandage around it, and nodded at George to ease her head back onto the pillow. “Good, George. Now hold her left arm up a bit . . . that’s good.” She unwrapped the cloth from Emily’s purple-black forearm. Elyoner shuddered at the horrific punishment the arm had taken, agreed with Physician Jones that there would likely be shattered bone beneath the bruises. “The arm’s improving, as well, though it still looks horrible . . . hurts me to look at it. She’ll be in pain for a good while, but it will heal . . . she has ferocious determination.” She cleaned the wounds, rewrapped the arm, and repeated the procedure on the right arm. “Much better here. She obviously took most of the blows with the left arm.”
When she had finished, she kissed Emily on the cheek, stood, stared down at her friend’s expressionless face. “I so miss your bright eyes and smile, Em. Please heal.” She caressed Emily’s cheek, dabbed the tears that had formed in her eyes, then faced the men. “Come, gentlemen, let us sit with her and pray.”
In a silent pall, the four sat glumly in a circle by the door, prayed privately for five minutes, then looked at one another in painful silence. With a morose expression accented by a forced smile, Elyoner looked at Colman and George. “This will pass. She’s going to live. I know she is.”
After Elyoner put Virginia to bed, she returned to the Colman’s cottage, and the three took turns reading Bible passages. George had read three lines when, from the back of the cottage, a faint voice whispered, “May I have some water?”
George stopped; the four regarded one another with quizzical looks, their eyes wondering who had spoken.
Elyoner looked toward the back of the room, saw Emily’s tired blue eyes peering at her between the top of the sheet and her head bandage, instantly thought how she looked like a sick, helpless little girl in need of her mother’s love. “Emily!” She dashed to the bed, knelt beside her, crossed herself, caressed Emily’s cheek, kissed her, caressed her again. “Oh, Em. You’re here. Thank God!” Tears rolled down her cheeks faster than she could catch them with her sleeve. “Someone bring a cup of water.”
Emily looked back at her with exhausted, glassy eyes and a tepid smile, whispered softy and slowly, “Hello, Ellie.”
Colman knelt on her other side, fought his tears, touched her cheek, then kissed her.
“Father.” Tears filled Emily’s eyes.
Elyoner took the water from George. “Thomas, hold her up a little . . . gently now . . . too high, back down a bit. There.” She held the cup to Emily’s lips while she sipped. “Slowly, Em, slowly. Not too much.”
When she had finished, Emily noticed George standing behind Elyoner. Her face immediately filled with sadness, uncertainty, caution. “George . . . are you . . .”
He knelt beside her, eyes damp and red. “Emily . . . I’m here. I’m myself now . . . I . . .” He kissed her cheek, held the hand she’d raised to him. He leaned down to her ear, whispered, “Emily, I love you. Praise God, you’re alive.”
Emily answered with a faint new glimmer in her eyes and a soft smile, then looking at each of them in turn, whispered hoarsely, “Why am I like this? What happened to me? I remember nothing. Why do I hurt so?” She winced as she moved her left arm, then rubbed the back of her neck with her right hand.
The four looked at one another. Solemnly, Elyoner said, “You’ve been lying here on your back for eight days, Em, eight days unconscious.”
“Eight days? But . . . but why? What happened? I don’t remember anything.”
Again they glanced at one another, each pair of eyes begging another to tell the tale, none accepting the challenge.
Emily’s eyes suddenly widened with a spark of remembrance. “I do remember something . . . a dream . . . unlike any I’ve ever had before . . . a ship . . . a Viking ship, I think . . .”
A chill raced through Allie’s sleeping body like a cold gust of wind on a winter night.
“and some men talking . . . I felt their thoughts and feelings, understood their language . . . smelled the sea air . . . they were deciding something . . . something about freshwater seas . . . ’twas so strange. I’ve never given a thought to the Vikings in my entire life. I know they raided us for many years and left much of their blood in our veins, but . . . but why would I dream about them? Never had a dream like that before . . . and I remember everything.”
Elyoner said, “I don’t know, Em, but nothing would surprise me after your ordeal.”
Emily touched her bandaged head, looked at her wrapped forearms, moaned as she tried to move, then glared at her attendants. “God’s blessed mother! Will one of you tell me what happened!” Her cheeks reddened, she kicked her legs up and down like a child in a tantrum. “ Ow!”
“Emily Colman! You stop that right now!” Elyoner said. “You�
�ll hurt yourself, make things worse.”
George said, “I’ll tell you, Emily.” He sat down beside her, held her hand, took a deep breath. “You, Agnes Wood, Joyce Archard, and Audrey Tappan were washing clothes. Three soldiers guarded you. Then Savages—the Roanokes, who killed my father—and another, different-looking Savage from some other tribe, surprised and killed the soldiers and Joyce Archard. They tried to take Audrey with them, but she resisted and they clubbed her . . . she died that night.”
“And Agnes?” Emily’s eyes were a wide, fearful blue.
“They took her.”
“Did you try to rescue her?” She looked at each man.
All three shook their heads. Elyoner’s hands covered her face.
Colman said, “It grieved us, Em, but we’d not the strength, the means, or the will to rescue her . . . and shame be upon us . . .” He sighed. “Her existence, if she has one, will be one of unspeakable horror.”
Emily’s eyes misted; she looked toward the wall. After a long, reflective pause she said slowly, “I remember him . . . the different-looking one! His face, its hateful look . . . he was the only one with hair . . . long hair on the left side . . . pulled back . . . three thin feathers. I shall never forget him.” Her breathing quickened as if she were again running for her life. “Wanted to kill me.” She closed her eyes for a moment, opened them; looked at her arms, touched her head; began to cry, slowly rocked her head back and forth, panted loudly. “He hit me . . . then must have decided to take me with him . . . his hands on my breasts . . . then picking me up . . .”
“Em, this pains you. Enough for now.”
She stopped, grabbed George’s sleeve, stared at him with sad, spent eyes. “Go on, George.”
He stared at her for a moment. “As you wish, Em. We heard a shot in the village. I seized my axe and ran toward the sound. Twenty men and soldiers were behind me; and when I saw you about a hundred yards away, the Savage was clubbing you like a berserk. You blunted his blows with your arms . . . mostly your left arm . . . again and again. I don’t know how you kept the club from your head.”
Emily’s eyes widened in terror. She pulled the sheet up to her nose, closed her eyes, sighed. “I remember.”
“Should I stop?”
“No! Tell me everything.”
“Truly, Em, you need not—”
“George, go on!”
“Very well. He suddenly stopped pounding you, reached down to lift you up . . . I think he wanted to take you with him like they took Agnes. Then two soldiers fired their muskets; I yelled and ran toward him; he looked, saw us, swung his club at you, hit your arms, then your head . . . you went limp.” George pressed his lips together, looked away, dabbed his eyes. “He raised his club to hit you again, crush your skull . . . like Father’s . . . but the soldiers shot again and he ran off.” He faced her. “Em, I thought you were dead . . . covered in blood and dirt . . . lying still as the earth, barely breathing. I screamed your name . . . cried . . . Lord God, how I cried . . . the thought of you dying before I could beg your forgiveness . . .” He touched her cheek.
She laid her hand over his. “George, if you hadn’t come, I’d . . .” She held his hand to her lips.
Elyoner said, “Let her rest. This is too much.”
As George slid his hand along her right cheek and stood, Emily reached under the sheet, assumed a frantic, panicked look. “Where’s my apron?”
George reached behind her, picked up her apron, and handed it to her. “I found it on the ground near where you fell.”
She snatched the apron from George, thrust her hand into the pocket, searched with her fingers. “ ’Tis not here. Where is it?”
“Where’s what, Em?”
“My locket! I want my locket! It was here in the pocket.” She grabbed his sleeve, pulled herself up.
“Em, I . . . I don’t know. We searched the area for anything that might have been dropped, but—”
“Mother!” A flicker of insanity flashed in her eyes. “I must find it! I’m going now!” She rolled to her side, braced herself to rise.
Elyoner held her down. “No, Em. Not now. You’re not strong enough. Tomorrow. Perchance I’ll take you tomorrow . . . if you’re ready.”
“No! I won’t wait! I want it now!” She tussled with Elyoner.
Colman held her right arm. “Emily! Stop this! You don’t need the locket. Your mother will join us soon, and we’ve scant time to search anyway.”
“Scant time? Why?”
Colman looked flatly at Elyoner then at Emily. “Because in a fortnight, we depart this wretched island for the Chesapeake country.”
“Then I’ll find my locket now.” She rolled off the bed onto her knees. “Ahhhh!”
“Emily Colman! Enough!” Elyoner said. “You can’t leap about like this.” All three eased her back onto the bed.
Like a little girl telling her mother about her skinned knee, Emily blubbered, “That hurt . . . bad.”
“The ribs,” Elyoner said with a mother’s scolding look. “Physician Jones said you may have cracked a few in the back; so by my troth, you stubborn, rebellious lass, lie still! You’ve only just awakened, and you’re not ready to walk. And you’re not going anywhere . . . yet. If the locket’s there today, ’twill be there tomorrow. So rest awhile, and then I’ll help you stand if you must. And perchance in a day or two, we’ll take some soldiers and go look for it.” She waved her index finger up and down at Emily. “We’ve an entire fortnight, so do as I say, girl!”
Emily closed her eyes, curved her lips into a pouty curl then looked up at Elyoner. “You act like my mother. I want my locket! I can walk now.”
“You need a mother, Emily Colman, and I’m her! You cannot walk yet, so lie still and behave yourself. You’re such a troublesome lass.” She thought how diminished, fragile, and frail Emily looked, thanked God she was alive, still spirited—nothing could take that from her.
Emily glared at Elyoner, snorted like a hungry swine. “Very well then. Tell me about departing for Chesapeake.”
The next day, Emily sat tenuously on a stool beside Elyoner, her bandaged left arm in a cloth sling. As Virginia sucked assiduously on her breast, Elyoner said, “Well, Em, the three of them, and the soldiers with them, searched the area again, found nothing. So perhaps in a day or two, you and I can get some soldiers and look again. It’s got to be there somewhere . . . but the way you ran . . . you covered a lot of ground, and who knows? Emily, do you have the stomach to go back there . . . it was such a terrifying experience.”
The massacre squeezed its way back into Emily’s mind as it had routinely done since her awakening, made her shudder with renewed terror as every detail again unfolded before her: the dash for the forest; the Savage pursuing, pushing her to the ground, his knee on her stomach; gasping for air, his face. His face . . . never forget his face: curved nose, gaunt features, red and black paint, wild, malicious eyes. She again felt herself slung over his shoulder, his jog jarring the air from her lungs like a bellows. That’s it! That’s where it is. When I stabbed him, he threw me to the ground; it must have fallen from the apron pocket. “Ellie, I know where it is . . . if I can . . . if I can find where he dropped me.” A solitary tear tracked haltingly down each cheek as a shadow of fear crept across her face. “But you may be right, Ellie. Perchance I’m not yet ready to go back there. Perchance . . .”
Clutching Virginia with one arm, Elyoner stood, stepped over to Emily, gently pulled her head against her side, and caressed the back of her neck. “They say tears and time are the greatest healers, my friend, so let them flow. I cannot imagine how you feel, your memories, your terror. But I’m with you, and I’ll stay with you and help you. You will persist, dear Emily. You will.”
A few seconds later, Emily looked up with passive, mournful eyes, wondered how it could ever be so; then before the thought faded, resolved that it would be so, that she would make it so. “Ellie, thank you for being my friend. We will go to the place. We will find my
locket.” She closed her eyes. Mother, I promise you I shall find it.
After Elyoner returned to her stool, she smiled at Emily. “ Em, I must tell you a story. The year Ananias and I were married, I was helping him dig post holes for a small fence we were building. My wedding ring was hurting my finger on the shovel handle, so I took it off and laid it on the ground near one of the holes. Well, that night after supper, I stuck my hand out to admire the ring as I frequently did in those days, and to my horror, it was gone. I couldn’t sleep that night, cried and worried that Ananias would notice, think the worst of me, that I didn’t love him and was declaring my independence. At first light, I rushed to the post and searched for the ring; and when I couldn’t find it on the ground, I concluded we’d buried it in the post pole. So there I was on my hands and knees, digging and sifting dirt with my hands, when Ananias came outside and saw me.” She chuckled. “You can’t imagine how embarrassed and tongue-tied I was when he asked me what I was doing.”
Emily smiled. “Just trying to do a better job of setting the post, right?”
“That’s exactly what I told him; and to my utter surprise, he nodded and walked back inside, quite impressed by the diligence of his new bride. Anyway, I dug up and reburied that post three times—in secret, of course—before I gave up hope. Then I went inside and cried all day— fortunately, Ananias was away. So the next morning, I went back to the beloved post one more time and searched the ground around it; and by the saints of Christendom, there it sat on the ground exactly where I’d put it.” She held her hand out, looked at the ring, her smile broad, proud, and radiant, as if she were about to delve into a dish of plumb pudding. “And the moral is that one should never give up. Never! And that’s my story. And don’t you ever give up, Emily Colman.”